My shell, it seems.

my shell, it seems
is the only thing that is known as me
if "nothing is as nothing seems"
i'll be the nothing i am, to you, for free

i am skin
and eyes
and skull
and bone

i am hair
and fingers
and limbs, here on loan

i am a photograph
you "no heartedly" gaze
swiping and scrolling
in a "hook up fried" haze

sick of talking to another
who's talking to everyone else
"past your eyes" looking
is the new normal, game

so "marriage equality" is legal
and it doesn't mean a thing
too many "already partnered or married's"
bring such a soul sting

but back to "my shell",
attached to a name
many may know it,
but they don't know the shame.

that pulsates, pounds
with every beat of my heart
says the boy who imbibed "tragedy"
as his most drawn to, of arts

now older and wiser
in a shallow soaked world
where "bisexual" means you'll do anyone for attention
my grandma, a dog, any willing boy or girl

my shell, inside
possesses a soul
along with a heart,
but all i am is a hole

to attach any thought, you don't have
for a moment,
then on the the next,

utterly disposable.

i own it.

because i know it,
and the truth does not lie

because i see it,
played out daily.

my shell, it seems
underneath,
here, i hide.



21 march 2019
ringwald love.